


The Lady of the Manor

by satelliteinasupernova



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Adultery, Alternate Universe, Class Differences, Dead Wives, Dubious Consent, F/M, Gothic, Horror, Literary References & Allusions, Misogyny, Mystery, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:06:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22116844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/satelliteinasupernova/pseuds/satelliteinasupernova
Summary: “Welcome to your new home,” Lord Chipping said as he put a hand out to help Betty down from the carriage. Despite the approach of Spring, there was a frosty chill in the air. Betty looked up at the large Chipping mansion. She had hoped it would look more welcoming, but its tall pointed towers came across as rather menacing instead.Don’t make judgements based only on appearances, her mother’s voice chided her. Even in her mind, her mother’s words were hypocritical.Betty looked up at her new husband as he led her inside. As always, he was handsome, and dressed well in a beautiful long jacket with a velvet waistcoat underneath. Throughout Betty’s misgivings with the arrangement, both her mother and sister had stressed just how handsome he was, and wasn’t she so lucky. Yes, he was attractive. He was well read, well bred, all the things girls dreamed of in a husband. But she hadn’t married him for those things; she had married him for his money, plain and simple.
Relationships: Betty Cooper/Jughead Jones
Comments: 105
Kudos: 119
Collections: 7th Bughead Fanfiction Awards - Nominees





	1. I. Betty

**Author's Note:**

  * For [soyforramen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/soyforramen/gifts).



> Alright. Before we begin, let's talk warnings.
> 
> As you can see from the tags, this fic is going to deal with some heavy stuff. Gothic Horror works written by women tended to be thematically about social limitations and anxieties within their place in society, and this fic will be exploring very similar things. 
> 
> There will be romance. There will be a lot of literary references. There will also be a focus on Betty's relationship with a husband she does not love, and the expectations put on her by being his wife. It is also about Betty and Jughead finding each other and loving each other anyway. 
> 
> For those who are interested in this fic and its themes, I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> Thank you to soyforramen for inspiring me to write this, and kayromantic for the beta!

“Welcome to your new home,” Lord Chipping said as he put a hand out to help Betty down from the carriage. Despite the approach of Spring, there was a frosty chill in the air. Betty looked up at the large Chipping mansion. She had hoped it would look more welcoming, but its tall pointed towers came across as rather menacing instead.

 _Don’t make judgements based only on appearances_ , her mother’s voice chided her. Even in her mind, her mother’s words were hypocritical.

Betty looked up at her new husband as he led her inside. As always, he was handsome, and dressed well in a beautiful long jacket with a velvet waistcoat underneath. Throughout Betty’s misgivings with the arrangement, both her mother and sister had stressed just how _handsome_ he was, and _wasn’t she so lucky_ . Yes, he was attractive. He was well read, _well bred_ , all the things girls dreamed of in a husband. But she hadn’t married him for those things; she had married him for his money, plain and simple. 

The Coopers came from a long line of nobility but had found themselves recently cut off from their inherited wealth after an extended family dispute. Despite Polly’s life long plan to marry their cousin, which might have solved the issue, the match had fallen through. It hadn’t helped matters that their father hated their relatives with a fiery passion.

With the situation beginning to look desperate for the Cooper household, their mother had begun to make plans to connect her daughters to men of significant wealth. Originally, Lord Chipping had been invited to the Cooper household with the intention of making a connection with her sister Polly, instead, it had been Betty who caught his eye.

After that, things moved quickly. Betty had hardly come to terms with becoming a bride before the date was set, and she found herself in a chapel, walking down the aisle in her mother’s wedding dress. 

Now that she had arrived at Lord Chipping's estate, her new life as a bride had officially begun.

Inside the manor, Betty was comforted by the glowing warmth of candlelight. Just inside the foyer was a large hearth with a crackling fire. Once Lord Chipping helped relieve her of her coat, Betty pulled off her gloves to warm her hands by the fireplace.

“Your things will be sent up to your room. Our cook, Ms. Grundy has already been instructed to set up a warm meal for you. Just…” Lord Chipping glanced around the entryway, as if he had only just noticed that something was out of place.

“Excuse me for just a moment,” he said in a huff. He walked a few steps down the hall to open a door just across from where Betty was standing. As he leaned in through the doorway, his voice was stern. “Forsythe.”

Curious, Betty moved forward so that she could peer in through the open door. The room looked to be a library. A young man was seated at a desk in front of a window on the far side of the room. Betty could barely make out his features, but she could see that he had a book open in his hand. At Lord Chipping’s reprimand, he instantly shut the book and stood up from the chair. “Lord,” he said, looking slightly alarmed.

It seemed to take Lord Chipping some pain to hold in his frustration. “Have a care to take Lady Chipping’s luggage to her quarters, would you?”

At that, the young man seemed to finally notice Betty’s presence from behind Lord Chipping, and he visibly reddened. He moved swiftly out to the hallway, and gave Betty a quick, clumsy bow. She tried very hard not to smile.

“Right away,” he said, as he stood straight, he glanced at Betty, then broke their gaze to glance at the floor, only to quickly look her way again.

“On with it then,” Lord Chipping said impatiently.

When the young man was out of ear shot, Lord Chipping apologized for his behavior. “He has potential as a manservant, but unfortunately, when I allowed him use of the library, I didn’t consider how much it would be a distraction from his work.”

Betty, with a genial smile, told him that she wasn’t offended, only amused by it.

Lord Chipping shook his head and said, “Well, if it amuses the Lady of the house.”  
  


The hallways of the manor were unusually thin. As she was led down the halls, Betty couldn’t help but feel crowded in by them. The walls themselves were at least twelve feet tall and adorned with portraits and decorative paintings. Eerily, the portraits all seemed to be looking down at her from above, as though her presence was foreign and unwelcome.

Lord Chipping shared brief explanations of a few of the portraits as he gave her a tour of the house. Many of them were his relatives, and all apparently of great importance, though Betty had not heard of most of them. As he guided her up to the second floor to the bedroom quarters, Betty’s eyes caught upon the portrait of a beautiful woman with ebony hair, dressed in black. Her eyebrows were arched in amusement, but there was something else in her expression, an unmistakable air of weary defiance.

“Ah,” said Lord Chipping, “That would be the late Lady Chipping. I’ve left that portrait up in honor of her. I hope that doesn’t bother you.”

Betty shook her head. “She was quite the beauty.”

Lord Chipping chucked, “Only equal to your own, Lady Elizabeth.” He was flattering her, she knew, but somehow in light of this portrait, the compliment made her feel uneasy.

The stairwell continued to lead up to a third story, but the remaining stairs were blocked off by an iron gate. When Lord Chipping noticed her looking at it curiously, he explained, “The third floor is overdue for renovations. I’ve been seeing to plans to restructure it, but currently the floors are unsafe. I’ve had it gated off in the meantime for safety.”

“What was the upper floor originally used for?” Betty asked.

“It holds a few extra bedrooms and places for storage. I’d had the mind to open up the place and turn it into a new library. Somewhere a little more secluded than the front of the house.”

Betty smiled to herself. He’d have even more trouble getting the attention of his valet if that were the case.

As promised, there was a warm meal waiting for Betty in her new quarters. Lord Chipping left her there to allow her the evening to settle in, but promised they would have breakfast together in the morning. For the moment, Betty was relieved to be left alone. 

The room was large with an elegant four poster bed against the center wall. There was a set of tall windows on either side that overlooked the open land outside the manor. In the dark, Betty could barely see more than the outline of trees and the road by the front of the house. The coach that had carried her to the manor was lit by a large lantern, held in the coachman’s hand. Betty watched as the coach headed away from the manor, the light growing smaller in the distance.

She was interrupted by a light knock at her doorway. When she called over for the visitor to come in, there was no response. As soon as she opened the door herself, she found Lord Chipping’s valet with her luggage in hand and a book tucked under his chin.

“Sorry,” he said, putting one of the bags down so that he could take the book in his hand. “I didn’t want to just…” He glanced at her bedroom behind her. “...walk in.” His cheeks had grown red again, but he seemed more comfortable than he had been when they first met.

Up close, she had a much clearer view of him. He seemed to be around her age, with smart, though tired, eyes. He had a smattering of freckles across his face that Betty thought looked rather charming. His hair was dark and unruly, several locks had fallen in front of his face.

She opened the door wider to give him room. “You can come in.” As he carried the luggage inside, she faltered a moment. Lord Chipping had seemed to call him by his first name, _Forsythe_ , so she wasn’t sure how to address him. “Ah, I’m sorry, but Lord Chipping didn’t tell me your name.”

The young man glanced up at her as he set her luggage beside the vanity. He righted himself as he said, “Oh, my name is J-” he stopped himself, closing his eyes with a momentary look of self-reproach before continuing. “Forsythe Jones.”

Betty smiled, “Thank you, Mr. Jones.”

“My pleasure,” he said with a curt bow, and then stepped toward her on his way out the door. The book he’d been carrying had been set under his arm, but he took it in his hand again and handed it to her. “There isn’t much to occupy yourself with here, so I thought…” he explained, “This might help you pass the time.”

Betty hadn’t been sure what to expect, but was surprised to see it was a copy of Jules Verne’s Around the World in Eighty Days. 

When she smiled at it with familiarity, he asked, “Have you read it?”

“Not in a long time,” she said. “I’d love the chance to revisit it. Thank you, Mr. Jones.”

He gave a shy smile, looking pleased at her response. He nodded his head once, then bid her goodnight.

She had fully intended to start unpacking her things after eating dinner, but instead, found herself several chapters into the book before she finally went to sleep for the night.

As Betty had no female attendants at the manor, the next morning she was left to wake up of her own accord. Since no one had told her when to expect breakfast, she got out of bed early to dress for the day. Just as she was about to leave the room, she glanced back at the book Mr. Jones had given her the night before. She still had plenty left to read, and it was possible that she might have to entertain herself for a while as she waited for breakfast to be served. She reached for the book, and tucked it securely in the sash of her dress.

As she moved down the long steps of the stairwell, she did so quietly, so as not to draw attention to herself. The manor felt quite different in the early morning light. The tall windows of the upper floors illuminated the rest of the manor. Betty could now clearly see the small textural details in the wallpaper along the hallway, the intricate gold designs in the door frames, and the delicate gold light fixtures on the walls. 

The manor was well cared for, but Betty was still made uneasy by how quiet it was. She had grown up in a relatively small townhouse. The frenetic energy of her mother and sister had carried throughout the house even on otherwise calm days. Every morning, she would find her father at breakfast reading the mail, recently come in from the post. Other girls from town would frequently come over in the afternoon to gossip, and her mother would eagerly probe them for useful news. 

Maybe it was too soon to be homesick, but as Betty wandered the halls of the Chipping manor, she felt overwhelmed. Would she really come to think of this cold, lonely manor as home? Would she learn to grow accustomed to her husband? She wasn’t naive enough to think she would learn to love him. What little she had gathered from their very short courtship, Lord Chipping was not a man who was interested in being loved. He was a man who wanted a wife.

Betty was interrupted from her musings by the sound of a loud bell from the ground floor. Presuming this was the call for breakfast, she made it to the bottom of the stairs just in time to run into Lord Chipping coming out of his office situated behind the stairwell. The night before, he had pointed it out to her as his private study, and where he preferred to spend time alone. 

Lord Chipping was not one to reveal much about his business. Prior to the engagement, her mother had asked around about him. He was an owner of a significant amount of land, and seemed to dabble in trade. He frequented social gatherings throughout the country, and even occasionally beyond it. It was unknown if all his dealings were purely within the law, but that had not stopped him from gaining the approval of Alice and Harold Cooper. Now that Betty had become the new Lady Chipping, they would be receiving a considerable monthly stipend, after all.

Lord Chipping greeted Betty with an easy smile, and graciously led her to the East drawing room, where breakfast was typically served.

“It has the best morning light,” he explained with some pride.

If she expected to grow more comfortable in Lord Chipping’s presence over the course of breakfast, she was mistaken. After a very brief introduction to the cook Ms. Grundy, who left the room quickly after setting down a large platter down for them, Chipping took a spot across from Betty at the table. The table was not so long that it felt odd to sit across from him, but it did feel oddly impersonal. As they ate, Lord Chipping spoke more about the manor and its daily schedule.

He explained that the nearby town was a few miles away from the manor, a walkable distance, though a considerable one. The manor was supplied largely by the farms and trade from town. Ms. Grundy, Mr. Jones, and the gardener, Mr. Svenson all had family there, and only Mr. Jones actually resided at the manor. When family was present at the estate, Ms. Grundy would be available for breakfast and supper. All other requests would be taken care of by Mr. Jones.

It was a very small household staff for someone as wealthy as Lord Chipping. He seemed to intuit her question before she had found the best way to ask about it without being impolite. He preferred the manor quiet, he explained. The staff was made only of people he felt he could trust.

What that told Betty, was that Lord Chipping preferred secrecy, and that he very likely had things to hide. She kept the thought to herself. Instead she smiled and nodded agreeably. After a moment’s pause for thought, she did say, “There are a few things that I can’t expect Mr. Jones will be able to help with.”

Lord Chipping looked at her, questionably, his brow creased in a way that made it clear that he had no idea what she meant.

Betty kept her smile in place, and added, “He can’t be expected to take on a lady’s maid's duties, I’m sure.”

“Ah,” he said, and waved a hand dismissively as if he had already considered it. “We will have a girl from town come in to help you. You can instruct her as you see fit.”

Betty let out a breath of relief. She could take care of most things for herself, but she couldn’t exactly ask Mr. Jones to help assist her with her laundry, much less help her with anything more personal than that.

After breakfast, Lord Chipping guided Betty to a room on the other side of the house. It was close to the entrance, just a few rooms down from the library she had seen the night before. When he opened the door for her, he revealed a lady’s parlor room, adorned with sitting chairs covered in floral light pink fabric. On the far end of the room was a piano, and just beside the fireplace was a small cabinet of books. 

“This room is yours to do as you please.” Lord Chipping said, graciously. 

Her mother would have loved the room. As Betty took a step forward, she could see the spines of the books in the cabinet. Such readings as the _Moral Encyclopaeda_ and _The Lady’s Book of Etiquette_ were already familiar to her, though she couldn’t say she was particularly excited to see them. She ran her hand along her dress sash where she had stowed the book Mr. Jones had given her. It would be a great comfort to her here.

If any of Betty’s thoughts were present on her face, Lord Chipping didn’t seem to notice. He walked over to a chest beside the loveseat and opened the lid. 

“If it isn’t too much to ask,” Lord Chipping turned to her then. “I have supplied you with all the resources for needlework. I would be honored to display something of your work in the manor. I already have a place picked for it.”

Betty forced a smile again. She was familiar with needlework too. Just as she knew how to sing and play the piano. Her mother had made sure that her daughters were skilled in any and all womanly manners, after all. As far as requests went, there were certainly much worse ones, but she wasn’t particularly eager to the task.

“Of course. I would be happy to,” she said, with forced cheerfulness. He smiled, and with a nod, left her alone in the parlor. Once he had shut the door behind him, Betty collapsed ungracefully into the loveseat. 

So this was married life. 

But more than uncomfortable dinners, bright pink parlor rooms, and needlework, there were other things Betty knew she could expect from married life. The uncomfortable thought crept anxiously through her mind. Lord Chipping had made no requests from her the night before due to her long journey, but she knew she would not be able to avoid it for long. 

Betty swallowed, burying the thought as she had many times before. It couldn’t be helped, she was his wife now. It would happen, and there was no point in distressing herself about it until then.

Instead, she pulled out her copy of Around the World in Eighty Days, and slowly allowed herself to be drawn back into a story far removed from her current concerns.

Betty had made it through several more chapters when a light knock sounded from the parlor doorway. Unsure what the Lord Chipping would say to her activities, she slid the book behind her as the door opened. She instantly relaxed when she saw that it was Mr. Jones, holding a tray of tea and biscuits. When she pulled her book back onto her lap, he glanced down at it and smiled immediately.

"Are you enjoying it?" he asked, as he set the tray down on the table in front of her.

"Yes, it has been… a comfort to me." Maybe that was too much to admit, but Betty found Mr. Jones's presence reassuring. Lord Chipping only seemed to look her way when it suited him, but Mr. Jones seemed openly curious, and interested in knowing her.

"I can't say I am particularly impressed by the book selection in this room," she whispered, keeping her tone light.

Mr. Jones stepped over to the small bookshelf and ran his hand over the books, taking in the titles. "I may not know much about the life of a noble woman, but I can’t imagine you are in need of ten different books on polite society.” Over his shoulder, he glanced back at her with a smile.

Betty felt herself smile back, despite herself. “Well, maybe another woman would find it all enjoyable," she conceded. "Unfortunately, I have never been especially entertained by this sort of thing."

Mr. Jones turned around to face her, his expression conspiratory. “There’s nothing to stop you from taking anything you want from the library.”

Betty breathed a sigh of relief. “Yes, I didn’t get a good look at it last night, but it seemed like a vast collection.”

His eyes were eager and almost seemed to sparkle in good humor. “I can give you some recommendations, if that would help.”

“Thank you,” Betty said, running her hand over the cover of the book in her hands. “That would be very kind of you.”

Not long after, Mr. Jones left her to the quiet of the parlor. The empty room didn’t feel quite as unfriendly and foreign as it had only moments before. Betty found herself relaxing into her chair, and she wasn’t disturbed again until the dinner bell rang down the hall several hours later.

The calm she had found in the parlor deserted her as soon as she found herself sitting across from Lord Chipping again for dinner. Compared to the drawing room, where they had spent breakfast that morning, the dining hall was much more intricate in design. The room was long with dark wood panelling and a high ceiling with a chandelier. It was clearly designed with stately dinners in mind. 

Lord Chipping’s place at the other end of the table was even farther from her than it had been during breakfast. After the main course had been served, Lord Chipping turned his attention toward Betty.

“I hope that you have found the manor to your liking,” he said before taking a bite of his beef roast.

“Yes, of course, my lord,” Betty said, dutifully.

“Have you begun work on your new project?” he asked, referring to the needlework he had requested.

Betty pulled her mouth into a smile. “Not yet, my lord. I have been considering my options,” she lied.

“Yes, of course,” Lord Chipping nodded, supportively. “I believe you will come up with something worthy of adorning the manor.” With that, their conversation trailed off, only picked up for small comments about the meal, the weather, and the elegant decor of the dining hall.

By the time the meal was complete and Betty prepared to excuse herself, she felt emotionally drained. Lord Chipping stood up to escort her from the room, but before she made it to the door, he took a step toward her and spoke to her in a low tone

“Lady Elizabeth,” his voice was soft but filled with intent. Betty felt her stomach drop, already suspecting what he would say. “I will be working in my office until late, but by the hour of ten my work will be complete. I would like you to meet me at my bed chamber after I’m done.”

Betty found herself nodding in agreement. “Of course,” she said, the words not quite sounding like her own.

As soon as she exited the room, she nearly ran straight into Mr. Jones. He had a hand towel slung over his shoulder, and was rolling up his sleeves, clearly preparing to clean out the dining hall. Before she could collide into him, he caught her by the shoulders.

“Careful,” he said with a good-natured smile.

“I’m very sorry,” she said, feeling her cheeks flush.

He studied her expression with concern, “Are you alright?”

She smiled with a nod. Any further conversation was interrupted by the sound of her husband calling from down the hall. “Forsythe. Bring me a new vial of ink from the storeroom before you start with the clean up.”

“Yes, sir,” Mr. Jones called back. He glanced back down at Betty with a small smile, and briefly gripped her shoulder comfortingly before releasing her. “Have a good night, Lady Chipping.”

It was the first time he had referred to her as such, and she was surprised how the sound of it made her stomach churn. She escaped upstairs to her bedroom without looking back.

Heated water had already been provided for her, so she put all of her focus on undressing and washing herself. She wondered if all new wives felt as she did, uncomfortable and anxious around their husbands. There was nothing particularly disagreeable with Lord Chipping, but Betty wasn’t quite sure what to make of him. In the process of a day she’d had more illuminating conversations with his valet then she’d had with the man himself.

Mr. Jones was an odd one. She suspected he spoke with her more out of boredom and curiosity than anything, and she was so eager for someone to connect with that she found herself eager for it. The male attendants at her parents’ household had rarely spoken to her except in greeting. Strictly speaking, she knew that it wasn’t entirely proper for them to have that kind of companionship, but Betty felt desperate for a friend. Maybe once she had a female attendant, she would grow more comfortable in the house.

Once the clock struck nine, Betty found herself staring at each turn of the dial. She was stuck between willing time to slow down and wishing for it to speed along so that the whole thing would be over with. 

By the time it was five ‘till, she was practically vibrating out of her own skin. With a deep breath, she wrapped a shawl around her nightgown and slid on a pair of slippers.

Lord Chipping’s bedroom was only a few rooms down the hall from hers. She felt herself slightly relieved that the lack of attendants meant that there wasn’t likely to be anyone to see her approach his rooms.

As soon as Betty lightly rapped on the bedroom door, Lord Chipping opened it for her and guiding her in by the arm. His bedroom was much like hers in scale, but adorned with darker colors and decorations. He had a small lantern set beside the bed, so she could only see the side of the room near the door.

Without any attempt at conversation, Lord Chipping moved Betty toward the bed. With one hand he reached up and ran his fingers along the curls of her hair. “Beautiful,” he said in a soft breath. He cupped his hand along the side of her cheek and leaned down to kiss her.

Surely, this was all that romance was, she told herself. She watched him as he relinquished her of her shaw, and began to undo the buttons down the front of her nightgown. Romance between a husband and wife meant having him caress you, to admire you as if you were a beautiful treasure. She could not mistake that look in his eyes, after all. Her husband did find her desirable.

He pulled her gown over her head and directed her to sit down on the bed, unbuttoning his own shirt and tossing it carelessly on the floor. His eyes swept over her as she laid against the pillows, and she could see the effect her body was having on him by the protrusion at the seat of his pants. Betty took a deep, steadying breath as he reached for his pant buckle and rid himself of the remainder of his clothes.

He was an attractive man, she reminded herself. And certainly he had experience in pleasuring a woman. If she relinquished herself to him, he would know what to do. 

Lord Chipping crawled atop her, and set his hand on the underside of her knee, lifting her leg up beside his waist. “You are so beautiful, Elizabeth,” he said again. And with a sigh, he slid inside her.

The pain started immediately. Her body felt tight around him, but he moaned appreciatively and drove his body further in. Betty had to bite at her lip to keep herself from crying out in pain. Her mother had warned her what the first night would be like. Pain was natural, and with time she would feel only pleasure. Betty couldn’t find any trace of that pleasure now. Traitorous tears threatened to fall down her cheeks, but barely, she managed to contain them. 

Mercifully, he didn’t take long. Just as Betty thought she couldn’t take another moment of his thrusts, he stilled with a long groan. 

After a moment, he lifted his body off of hers and gazed down at her with a long, appraising look. She couldn’t say what her expression was like in that moment, her eyes still blinking with tears, her mind stuck between feelings of discomfort and relief. Whatever he saw seemed to please him. Before he rolled over to the other side of the bed, he patted her cheek affectionately, and leaned over to kiss her on the forehead. 

Without another word, he buried his head into the nearest pillow. For a long time, Betty didn’t move, staring up at the ceiling, unsure of what to do. She could hear the sound of a clock on the bedside table near her head, counting through the seconds. Betty glanced over at her husband, but he made no movement, appearing to have fallen into an easy sleep.

Emboldened by the sound of his faint snores, Betty slowly pulled herself out of the bed, steadying her feet on the cold wooden floor one step at a time. Once she was standing, she reached down for her clothes and slid them back over her body as quietly as she could. She found her slippers and shawl as she tiptoed toward the door.

As she pulled the door open, the squeak of the hinges sent a chill through her. She glanced back at the bed, but Lord Chipping remained unmoved. She pulled the door just wide enough so she could fit through it. Once she had softly shut the door behind her, she escaped back to her bedroom, walking as quickly as she could without breaking into a full sprint. 

As soon as she had made it to the safety of her room, she closed the door behind her and locked the latch. She rushed over to the comfort of her bed, pulling her covers around her. In the safety of her new cocoon of soft blankets, she finally allowed herself to cry.


	2. II. Jughead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Spoilers for the Edgar Allan Poe stories The Fall of the House of Usher and Ligeia.
> 
> Thank you to kayromantic for the beta!

Jughead had been working for the manor since he was fourteen. He had started as little more than a stable hand. Lord Chipping had taken an interest in his education after he found Jughead tucked behind the stable with a book in his hands. Instead of punishing him, Chipping had chosen to give Jughead complete access to his own personal library, the price only that Jughead had to begin training under Chipping’s valet, Mr. Wallis. 

That had been a trial of its own, since Wallis was a bully who considered himself superior to Jughead in every way, all because his father’s uncle was apparently a nobleman of some kind. Mercifully, Wallis soon decided that he had outgrown the Chipping manor and found a new job working for a diplomat. Jughead’s life had been much easier ever since.

Chipping didn’t keep many servants around. Most days, Jughead was the only one at the manor. Chipping charged Jughead with keeping the place in order while he was elsewhere, which was most of the time.

Jughead had his own room in the basement floor of the manor, tucked behind the kitchen and the laundry. His bedroom had no windows, but it was furnished with an old writing desk and a bed just large enough to fit him. As long as he had a lantern and access to books, Jughead had everything he needed. 

In the evenings, once his work was done for the day, Chipping allowed Jughead to spend time in the library. Jughead would sit at the desk positioned in front of a set of tall windows, illuminated by the evening sun. All said, it was a far cry from the tiny one bedroom cottage he had grown up in.

Ever since he had taken the position of Chipping’s valet, he had resided at the manor. He had reason to visit town several times a week to run errands for Chipping, so he was still able to see his family on a regular basis. A portion of his wages went toward their food and Jellybean’s schooling. At the bright age of twelve, Jellybean had already decided that she wasn’t interested in marriage, and was determined to make a living for herself as a secretary. If Jughead ever managed to follow his own dream of becoming a published author, he hoped to hire her for the job himself.

Jughead had never told Lord Chipping of his personal dreams. He wasn’t the sort of employer who concerned himself with the particulars of his servants’ lives. He had given Jughead a rare opportunity, and Jughead knew him well enough by now to recognize that the motivation had largely been out of self interest. By giving Jughead that opportunity, Chipping knew he would find himself a loyal servant. 

Jughead had gotten used to Chipping’s mannerisms over the years. Chipping liked to keep to himself when he was at the estate. He only shared details about his life to Jughead when he saw fit. It kept things simple. As long as Jughead did what he was expected to, Chipping largely overlooked how he spent his time, and Jughead could do as he pleased.

For all that he was used to Chipping’s discretions, Jughead still hadn’t been prepared when Chipping informed him, almost completely offhand, that he had been recently married, and that his new bride would be arriving at the manor within the week. In the meantime, Jughead was expected to prepare the manor for her arrival.

Prior to this sudden marriage, Lord Chipping had been married twice. His first wife had died young. Since then, she had been memorialized in a large painting at the base of the stairwell. From the moment, he had first seen it looming above the mansion’s one set of multi-level stairs, he had found the portrait unnerving. Chipping’s first wife had been unquestionably beautiful, with smart eyes and long dark hair, but there was something to the expression in her portrait that to Jughead seemed rather haunted. Her eyes were painted at just the right angle that they seemed to follow him regardless of his position in front of the painting. For the first few years of his service, he had actively avoided looking in the direction of the painting late at night. He could almost feel her eyes still following him as he’d checked the doors and windows before retiring to bed. 

As for Chipping’s second wife, the less said about her, the better.

Jughead didn’t know what to expect of the newest Lady Chipping. The very little he knew was that she was of noble birth, young, and of course, beautiful. From what little Chipping shared, it seemed he had been particularly taken with her amenable temperament. Considering the temperment of his previous wife, Jughead wasn’t exactly surprised that this had been the aspect he had focused on.

The bedroom belonging to the lady of the house had been locked up for the past three years. Without even stepping into the room, Jughead knew there would be hours of work ahead of him. The room would need to be cleared, lanterns restocked and clean sheets pressed. The floors would likely need waxing, and the washroom would need to be scoured. It would take most of the remaining week just to get everything prepared.

When Jughead stepped into the room with a bucket of cleaning and waxing supplies, he found a significant layer of dust along the floor. All the furniture, including the bed and vanity had been covered with white sheets. As Jughead pulled them loose, he had to cover his mouth to keep from coughing up the loose dust.

Times like these were when he could really use an extra set of hands.

Over the years, Jughead had developed a significant number of useful skills. Most of them he had learned entirely by trial and error. Jughead knew how to clean, wax, and polish nearly everything in the manor. He could cook simple meals, and assemble a decent tray of charcuterie for when guests visited from out of town. Jughead knew how to use a sewing needle for making simple mends for torn sleeves or missing buttons. It also wasn’t too uncommon for Chipping to throw simple accounting Jughead’s way when Chipping was otherwise engaged. 

At first, the task of managing a house mostly on his own had been daunting. It hadn’t helped that his one source of instruction had been from Chipping’s original valet, the snide Mr. Wallis. Wallis had thrown duties at Jughead without any guidance from the beginning, and laughed at him when he made a mistake. But once Jughead found himself in a situation that forced him to sink or swim, he found that he could swim rather well.

More than Wallis’ taunts or Chipping’s expectations, Jughead was motivated by his own curiosity and ambition. Once he was given access to Chipping’s large collection of books, Jughead had started to understand just how limited his own previous knowledge had been. Prior to working for Chipping, the only stories he would have been able to write convincingly were of small town farm life. Now, he had an outsider’s look at wealth and privilege too. 

Through his readings, Jughead had found himself especially drawn to stories of mystery and intrigue. As he spent time waxing the light fixtures along the hallway of the manor, he would imagine how a crime might be carried out in secret along the halls of the manor. How he would put it to paper. The manor was the perfect backdrop for a tale both horrific and strange. 

During his time at the manor, he had discovered several hidden and lost secrets throughout the house. Under a set of loose floorboards in the drawing room, Jughead had discovered a set of old, crinkled letters that nearly crumbled at the faintest touch. The words were almost unintelligible due to discoloration, but what words he could make out were warm, eloquent words of affection. Jughead had taken the letters to Chipping, carrying them in his hands carefully, as if holding an irreplaceable treasure. 

Jughead had already started building up a story in his head about the source of the letters. Long forgotten love letters of one of Chipping’s relatives, once tucked away from prying eyes. Shared words of secret affection, hidden where only one other person knew to find it, now forever gone.

Chipping hadn’t taken interest in the find the way that Jughead had. He had thanked Jughead, then simply thrown the letters in the trash. Then he had asked Jughead to get back to work. Jughead had done as he was told, but as he put the floor panelling back into place and continued with cleaning, his mind was alight with the unending possibilities of secrets and mystery that might have taken place in the manor.

Jughead had even learned to enjoy the occasional visits of noblemen of Chipping’s acquaintance. Between the extra work of attending to the guest rooms, Jughead would study his visitors. He would casually listen to their conversations as he resupplied their wine, all while studying their body language. Using his limited knowledge, he would build up stories around them. When something they said rang false, Jughead would speculate about the lie. He would let Chipping and his fellow men-of-wealth feed his imagination.

By the time Jughead had finished all of the preparations, it was already the day before Lady Chipping was set to arrive. While Jughead had been preparing each room of the manor she would be expected to use, Chipping had spent the entire week shut up in his office. He hadn’t come out even for meals, instead having Jughead deliver sandwiches through a crack in the door.

Strictly speaking, this kind of reclusive behavior was nothing new for Chipping, but Jughead couldn’t help but wonder if he intended to continue with it even after his new wife arrived. 

With everything he had been instructed to do finally complete, wearily, Jughead put together a sandwich for himself and made his way to the library. He had barely had any time to read during the past week. A bound collection of Edgar Allan Poe’s writings was still resting on the desk where he had left it days ago. With a deep sigh, Jughead leaned back in the chair, carefully turning the page back to where he had left off while using his free hand to eat his sandwich. 

It was late in the evening when Jughead heard the creak of the door to Chipping’s study, and heavy footsteps moving down the hallway. Normally, this would be when Jughead would check to see if his assistance was needed, but after a full week of long work days, Jughead let him go without attendance. If Chipping really needed him, he would undoubtedly call for his service. More importantly, Jughead was only a few pages away from finishing _The Fall of the House of Usher_ and had no desire to move from his reading place. The protagonist had recently helped his friend entomb his deceased sister in the family crypt, and despair seemed to have deeply infected the house. Jughead read on. 

_...there came a strong shudder over his whole person: a sickly smile quivered about his lips; and I saw that he spoke in a low, hurried, and gibbering murmur, as if unconscious of my presence. Bending closely over him, I at length drank in the hideous import of his words._

_“Not hear it? - yes, I hear it, and have heard it. Long - long - long- many minutes, many hours, many days, have I heard it - yet I dared not- oh, pity me, miserable wretch that I am! - I dared not - I dared not speak! We have put her living in the tomb-”_

Jughead’s heart nearly leapt to his throat when an abrupt voice called out from the doorway behind him. “Forsythe.” Chipping sounded impatient. 

Snapping his book shut, Jughead stood up to face him. “Lord,” he answered. 

It was clear from Chipping’s demeanor that something had gone wrong. His face was tight, his annoyance barely concealed. “Have a care to take Lady Chipping’s luggage to her quarters, would you?”

It was only then that Jughead noticed a young woman standing a few steps behind Chipping, peering over his shoulder with curiosity. The new Lady Chipping. 

There was an amused twinkle in the lady’s eye, even as Chipping continued to glower at Jughead impatiently. Jughead stepped out of the library and gave her an awkward bow. He had to force himself not to stare. Despite the long trip she had just undergone, her eyes were bright and animated. A few curls hung loose from her the rest of her hair, pinned behind her head. Jughead had to remind himself not to stare, pointedly forcing himself to look at the ground.

He was certain that he had never met her before, but there was something about her that was almost familiar. Jughead felt as though some sort of deep seated nostalgia had broken loose in her presence, and it left him feeling frazzled. It took a moment, the pieces sorting back together like pieces of a puzzle, before he realized what she reminded him of.

Jughead’s mother had been a city girl before she had found herself married to a farmhand in a small town. Since her youth, she’d had a taste for the arts. A few years before Jughead had started working at the manor, she’d had reason to visit the city and had taken Jughead along with her. For Jughead, the trip had been one new experience after another. His first time in the city, his first time taking the train. When her errands were done, they had taken a detour to an art museum.

His mother had stood for hours inspecting the paintings on display with a discerning eye. Jughead had found himself wandering a hall of picturesque statues, their intricate forms in stunning white marble. They had seemed so real, so human, every vein and bone in their hands crafted with detail. At the center of the selection had been the large sculpture of a couple held together in a loving embrace. A tenderness had been captured between them, through the softness of their touch, their faces angled to meet in an intimate kiss. Their skin looked warm despite the still, cold marble they were crafted from. For the first time in his youth, that sculpture had instilled in Jughead a new sense of longing that since had never truly left him.

Like a new brush of wind, the sight of Lady Chipping reignited those sleeping embers of longing anew. She looked like she could have been one of those marble statues come to life.

It was only at the sound of Chipping, impatiently clearing his throat, that Jughead remembered his instructions. The luggage. “Right away,” he said, belatedly.

“On with it then,” Chipping said with finality.

  
  
  


Maybe it was the remnants of that near giddy nostalgia that inspired him to stop by the library on the way to taking Lady Chipping’s luggage upstairs. If the size of her bags was anything to go by, she hadn’t come with much to entertain herself, and the manor itself had little to offer. He went to the first book that came to mind, determined not to overthink his choice. He was so familiar with the layout of the bookshelves that he was able to find the book without much of a search. Around the World in Eighty Days by Jules Verne. It might have been her recent travel that brought it to mind, or maybe it was simply his own associations of entertainment through adventure.

It occurred to him as he approached the lady’s chamber, that he had never attended to a woman of the house before. The last time Chipping had been married, Jughead had still been a stable boy. Back then, he had rarely ventured into the manor at all. He didn’t know the etiquette of tending to a woman himself. Luckily, Lady Chipping was unshaken by his awkward attempt to politely enter the room. She only watched him with curiosity as he deposited the luggage.

It felt different to be alone with Lady Chipping without Lord Chipping’s looming presence. Now that she stood beside him, she felt so much smaller. Her smile that had seemed so unflappable before, he could now see held traces of nerves. A weariness had settled into her that hadn’t been there before. This was her first night in a new place, in a new marriage, in a new town. He couldn’t help but sympathize.

Jughead found he was so off guard, that when she asked him his name he almost slipped up. At the Chipping manor he was always “Forsythe Jones,” not Jughead, the name his family still used. The words were almost out of his mouth before he realized his mistake. 

Still, he relished in the smile that bloomed on her face when he handed her the book he’d brought. The tension seemed to draw from her shoulders, her body visibly relaxed. He felt an almost overpowering desire to reach out to her. To let her know that she was welcome here. That this would be her home. He shook the feeling off and bade her goodnight.

This is the new lady of the manor, he reminded himself. She didn’t need a manservant’s words of comfort.  
  


When Jughead headed back downstairs, Chipping was already standing in the hall waiting for him. His shoulders were straight with his hands tucked behind his back. 

“Badly done, Forsythe.” Chipping said, his voice tight with restraint. Jughead took a deep breath to keep himself from responding with sarcasm. He wanted to say, ‘Lord, tomorrow night was the time _you_ gave me for the lady’s arrival. The fact that you did not notify me of a change of plans is no fault of mine.’

Instead, he simply bowed his head and apologized. He had learned the hard way that arguing his point to Chipping was never really worth it. Even on the rare occasion when Chipping admitted to an error, it was only with resentment after a long and circular debate.

“We must show Lady Chipping that this house is managed properly. No more mistakes like tonight, or I will be forced to lock up the library for the time being.”

There he was, dangling the library over his head, as he always did when things didn’t go his way. It was Chipping’s worst trait, as far as Jughead was concerned. Jughead gritted his teeth and forced a smile. “Of course, sir.”

Jughead waited until Chipping had left the hallway, then slid back into the library and tucked several books under his arm, to be hidden away under his mattress.

  
  
  


Having Lady Chipping present in the manor didn’t change things as much as Jughead might have expected. Lady Chipping, he found, mostly kept herself to the parlor. When he stopped by to bring her tea in the afternoon, she was either reading or staring at untouched needlework fabric with a forlorn look on her face. The nervous tension that he had noticed on her first night at the manor was still ever present.

It was a few days after her arrival, when Lord Chipping pulled him aside.

“There will be a lady’s maid coming from town a few times a week to serve Lady Chipping. I’m counting on you to show her around the servants quarters. Supply her anything she needs.” Chipping instructed. He looked down at a note in his hand, “It will be a Miss Ethel Muggs.”

Jughead held back a groan, and nodded to Chipping without complaint.

Jughead liked Ethel, really, but as one of the few girls from his home town around his age, they had been paired together for most of his life. It was generally expected from their family friends and —based on a few pointed hints— his mother, that the two of them should be married.

Ethel was smart, pretty, endlessly helpful, but Jughead had just never felt completely at ease around her. He knew she liked to read, had seen her with a book plenty of times, but any conversations he tried to have with her about the subject always went the same way. Ethel was very quick to agree with his opinion on everything. She would even prod him about a book he was engaged in to start a conversation between them, but then, in an exaggerated manner, agree happily with everything he said. He knew Ethel had opinions of her own, she just seemed so eager to please him that she never actually shared any of them with him.

He could work with her perfectly well, but he couldn’t help but feel mildly uncomfortable whenever he was in her presence.

Still, Ethel and Lady Chipping would suit each other. Ethel was friendly and capable, and she would find Lady Chipping just as charming as he had. With some disappointment, he knew that bringing in a lady’s maid to work at the manor would mean seeing less of the Lady herself, especially since she had taken to spending her days shut away in the parlor. 

But he had no say in that, he silently reminded himself.

  
  
  


Despite Chipping’s threats, the library remained unlocked. Jughead resumed his evening visits to the library, but still kept a few books tucked away in his bedroom, just in case. For the time being, he sat in his usual chair and returned to the work of Edgar Allan Poe. He had just finished the oddly didactic story, _The Imp of the Perverse_ , and was about to move onto a new story when he heard the creak of the library door behind him. When he looked over his shoulder, he saw Lady Chipping stepping softly toward the bookshelves, her hand holding a book against her chest. She didn’t look his way, inspecting the selection of books with interest.

“Lady Chipping?” he said, tentatively interrupting her.

She looked over at him suddenly with an odd look of dismay. “Oh,” she said. There was a pause before she clarified, her voice sweet, but firm. “Please don’t call me that.”

Clearly, he had erred in some way. He tried again, “Lady Elizabeth, then.” 

“Not that either,” she said, but her mood shifted. Her discomfort had developed into something more like amused frustration. “My mother calls me Elizabeth, but I don’t want to spend the rest of my life being referred to only as the mistress of this house, either.”

He tried and failed to keep from smiling. “What should I call you then?” he played up a fake exasperation just to tease her.

She turned fully to face him, and seemed to consider for a moment. Then she said, “Betty. Please call me Betty.”

“Betty,” he repeated. It was informal, and calling her by it felt intimate in a way that he hadn’t expected.

“And how about you,” she added, “What do you prefer to be called? Mr. Jones? Or would you prefer Forsythe?”

“Honestly?” He leaned his arm over the back of the chair and looked up to meet her eyes. He remembered the moment when he had first introduced himself to her, and the name that he had wanted to give.

“Yes, of course,” she said, her words easy and certain.

“My family calls me Jughead.”

He wasn’t surprised when her eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “Jughead?” Even so, he liked the sound of it. Her voice speaking his name.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, though he knew she thought he was joking.

“And you like to be called that?”

“More than my given name,” he said, wryly. 

“I _will_ call you Jughead,” she insisted, as if pressing him to end the joke.

“I would like that very much,” he said in response, keeping her gaze all the while.

“Well,” she said with a sigh, sitting in the nearby lounge chair. “Jughead. I came to return your book.” She laid it on the desk between them. 

“You enjoyed it then?” She had read it quickly, and each time he’d had the chance to see her, she had been carrying it with her.

“Very much,” she said with an easy smile. Then she glanced down at the book in his hands. “Now, tell me what you’re reading.”

Jughead pulled the book from his lap, still holding it partly open with a finger to keep his place. When he showed her the cover, she recognized it immediately. 

“Ah,” she said, not sounding surprised at all. “I see you are one for melancholy.” 

She leaned forward and with a delicate hand, angled the book so that she could see which story he was reading. As soon as she was able to view the title of the short story, her smile fell. “Ligeia.” She glanced up to meet his eyes. “I might think you were trying to tease me, Jughead.”

Unlike many of Poe’s short stories, Jughead had not read that particular story before. He glanced down at the book with bewilderment. “How do you mean?”

Betty seemed to study him for a moment, but then sat back into her chair, releasing a sigh. “I suppose you don’t mean anything by it.”

Her expression still had a hint of bitterness to it. With his thumb, Jughead shuffled through the pages of the book. “What did you think I meant?”

“If you read it, you’ll know. I’d hardly wish to spoil the story for you.”

“Betty,” he pressed. 

At the sound of her name, she glanced at him. She shifted in her seat uncomfortably, staring out at the floor. It was a moment before she spoke again.

“In Ligeia… a man loses his wife to illness. He finds a new wife, but over time her body is taken over by the dead one.” Her eyes flickered over to him again. “You can see its relevance.” Her expression was grim, as if this one story foretold her own fate.

“Betty,” he said, keeping his voice steady, “You are not going to be possessed by the ghost of Chipping’s dead wife.”

She gave him such a distinct glare of exasperation that he almost laughed. “That is not what I mean. I hope you don’t take all works of fiction this literally. Particularly not the works of Poe.”

This time he did laugh. “I haven’t read it yet. I don’t know how I’ll interpret it.”

“When you do, try not to imagine me as the fair-haired Rowena, deprived of sunlight and her health, while being slowly possessed by a dead woman.”

Now that she had said it, he knew it would be impossible not to imagine it. 

Just as he was about to ask her thoughts on Poe’s other works, they were interrupted by the sharp sound of a chair moving across the floor from down the hall. To Jughead, it was an everyday sound, the clear signs of Chipping moving in his study. Next to him, Betty’s posture went rigid. She glanced up at the library door, her expression panicked and agitated. 

“Thank you for the book, Jughead,” she said quickly. Giving him no time to respond, she left the room in a hurry. He could barely hear her quick steps as she carefully made her way up the stairs.

Jughead was left feeling somewhat abandoned. He wasn’t able to concentrate on the story they had been discussing, and instead he locked up for bed early, still thinking about his conversation with Betty and her sudden departure.

It didn’t occur to him until much later that to someone else, his and Betty’s easy conversation may not have seemed entirely appropriate.


	3. III. Betty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mentions of fertility, menstruation, etc.
> 
> As always thank you to kayromantic for the beta!!

_Dear Elizabeth,_

_I hope that you have grown comfortable with married life. I know how stubborn you can be, but I believe by now you will have realized that your premarital worries were unfounded. It is so easy to conjure up irrational fears when faced with the unknown. It was the same way for me before I married your father._

_Your family is doing well. Thank heavens, we finally have the means to keep up with current fashion. You know perfectly well how Mrs. Klump used to comment about_ _last season's dresses behind my back. Polly and I will be attending a gathering at Lord Weatherbee’s in our new gowns on Friday night. Now that we are back in good graces with high society, I’ll be sure to make those who dared look down on us remember it!_

_Your father, of course, has been able to make several new acquaintances since the wedding. If all goes well, we may be able to establish connections to families who summer out every year by the ocean. Of course, they’ll soon be glad to invite us to join them._

_You’ll be looking forward to a summer out in the country, I’m sure. Enjoy your newly wedded bliss, and don’t forget the things we spoke of before you left._

_Your Mother,_

_Lady Alice Cooper_

Betty folded the letter back into the envelope. She didn’t know what she had expected from her mother. Sympathy, at the very least. Reassurance maybe. Instead, her mother had written a letter based entirely around the assumption that Betty was fine and that everything was going according to her plans. That was what she wanted to believe, and her mother was very good at convincing herself that things were as she wanted them to be. 

It was the tail end of her letter that burned the most. _Don’t forget the things we spoke of before you left._

It was, in fact, something she had been thinking about frequently as of late. Her mother had taught both of her daughters how to carefully document their monthly cycles. Before Betty had left home, her mother had provided her with a leather bound notebook explicitly for her to use to continue mapping out her cycle in private once she arrived at her new home.

The night before Betty had left her family home, her mother sat her down when they were alone, facing her with a stern expression.“Now, Elizabeth. This is very important. Rich men like Lord Chipping do not trifle with wives who cannot give them children. And of course, to keep his wealth within his family line, he will be desperate for a son. It is not unheard of for men like him to annul a marriage if he so much as thinks his wife might be barren. It is important that you become pregnant as soon as possible.”

Thinking of the conversation now still made Betty’s stomach churn. The reminder was made worse by the knowledge that she was currently within her fertility period. Plenty of people didn’t get pregnant early into their marriage, she reminded herself. There was no guarantee that she would in fact become pregnant, even if her husband were to request she visit his bed every night for the next week.

Still, the possibility terrified her. She had long tried to convince herself that her fears were simply because she was not ready to be a mother. Certainly, that might be true, but a traitorous thought in the back of her mind wondered at the possibility if she found herself unable to conceive a child. She imagined a future where Lord Chipping turned her out and did not fear it as much as she should. She would get a job. Her family would sell their home and let out a more affordable one. The scandal would ruin what little respectability her family still had. There would be no high society connections. Her parents would have to give up on their dreams of nobility and wealth.

It was all a deeply selfish fantasy.

Betty was disrupted from her thoughts by a knock on her bedroom door. 

“Come in,” she called, after clearing her throat.

Ethel slid through the door, shutting it behind her. “I thought you might like me to do your hair before I left for the day. It seems Lord Chipping plans to leave this afternoon.”

“Leave?” Betty asked vacantly.

“He has business out of town. He hasn’t told you?”

Betty shook her head. 

Ethel reminded Betty much of her sister Polly. Although Ethel was clever and independent in ways that her sister was not, she had the same unwavering positivity. Ethel seemed to view Betty’s life with a sense of romanticism that Betty herself did not feel.

“Oh, this will be lovely on you. Won’t Lord Chipping be pleased,” Ethel had said when a new collection of dresses had arrived. She then helped Betty try each one on, complimenting each dress, and then took notes for small alterations she planned to make. 

Being around Ethel reminded Betty so much of home in both good and bad ways. Even so, Betty found her presence to be a great relief. Ethel had such a clear idea of what should be done, that she helped bolstered Betty’s confidence, if only just a little.

Betty untied her hair, pulling it loose from the simple braid she had slept in. “I would love your help, Ethel. Thank you.”

Betty made her way downstairs just as Jughead was passing by with a suitcase on his way to the front door. Lord Chipping was standing by his study, gazing on. When she approached him, he smiled. “Business calls me away. I had hoped it could be delayed a bit longer, but it is urgent. I’ll be gone for a few weeks.”

Betty smiled tightly, hoping her face wouldn’t reveal her feeling of relief. A few weeks without him, she would cherish greatly. He checked his pocket watch, and then continued. “Once I return we will have a proper gathering, so I can introduce you to society as the lady of the house. I have friends who are eager to meet you.”

“Of course,” Betty replied simply. 

“If there is anything you need, you will have Forsythe, as well as Ethel on her scheduled days, of course. Ms. Grundy will continue to provide meals for you while I am away. Now I must see to preparations,” he said, dismissing her. “There is much to do before my carriage arrives.”

The morning after Lord Chipping left for business, Betty was slow to rise. Very little had been asked of her since she had arrived at the manor, but she had nearly worn herself out trying to fulfill her new role as a wealthy man’s wife. A good wife didn’t sleep in past dawn. She rose with the sun and dressed before breakfast. She was available at any hour of the day, and appeared promptly, with genteel grace at the call of her name.

Presenting herself as the ideal wife was her mother had been impeccable at, particularly when she was in front of guests. Betty found it much more trying. Betty had been gangly and energetic as a child. She’d had a thirst for knowledge that her father had encouraged, much to her mother’s dismay. By the time she was thirteen she had read every book in her father’s collection. 

Regardless of her personal scholarly interests, she had been excited for the possibility of coming out in society. Both Polly and her mother spoke of it fondly. Her mother had explained that she would not learn nearly as much from books as she would from high society people. Betty imagined meeting world travelers, academics and explorers, but instead of the stunning adventure Betty had imagined high society to be, she found it quite dull. It mostly comprised of small talk and circular conversations, a topic would seem to finally end only to be recycled as soon as a new person joined the conversation. 

Rather than the blooming beauty she had hoped to be at a ball, she had only felt awkward. Boys rarely picked her as a dance partner, and Betty was unable to find another girl who didn’t already enjoy Polly’s company a great deal more than hers. Her mother was quick to make fights, and would feign astonishment when Betty mentioned it. Betty would feel herself blush in shame when she overheard someone making a joke at the expense of her family, and then turn to see her mother doing the very same to them. One of the small comforts she’d had in her new marriage was that at least she would be largely rid of those moments.

It wasn’t until the afternoon that Betty left her bedroom to wander the hall of the upper floor. The manor without Lord Chipping was a calm sort of quiet. It was the quiet of morning snow, muffled, but pleasant. It was different from the tense, chilly silence of the manor when he was there. Betty didn’t need to worry about the sound of her footsteps when she walked, or of accidentally finding herself somewhere where she was not allowed to go. Even the portraits along the wall seemed to carry less judgment on their faces than they had before. Betty looked at each of them freely, and found herself laughing at the pompous expressions on each of their faces.

Lord Chipping’s absence made her feel brave and curious. When she had first arrived, he had told her that the other end of the hall was mostly dedicated to guest rooms, and as she explored, she found that to be the case. There was a set of nearly identical rooms down the hall, eventually leading down to a corner with a dead end.

She circled back, this time eyeing the locked gate restricting entry to the third floor. The space between the bars of the gate were much too thin to slip through, and there was a heavy padlock sealing the door. 

When she was young, Betty had read a story once about a jewel thief who broke past the most secure locks with a simple pin. She had become so enthralled by the idea that every night for weeks she would attempt to break into her own jewelry box with her hair pin. It was a skill that had turned out to be useful on a number of occasions, not least of which was when her mother lost the key to the china cabinet.

Betty slipped her hand through the gate so that she could turn the bottom of the padlock toward her. The lock was similar to ones she had seen before, but made of heavy metal. If she took a hairpin to it, it would only break during the attempt. If she decided to risk exploring the upper floor, she would need to find a tool that could manage it.

For the first few days in Lord Chipping’s absence, Betty did her best to stay out of Jughead’s way. Ethel came by often enough that she could see to any of Betty’s main concerns, and Betty enjoyed the thought of allowing Jughead some rare freedom. She imagined her husband’s absence was a welcome change for him just as it was for her. 

Since their conversation in the library, Betty had found herself watching Jughead. Perhaps not surprising considering his interest in literature, Jughead was a bit of a daydreamer. He went through the motions of cleaning quite easily, but it was clear that his mind wandered. His eyes never seemed to be fully focused on the task, and Betty had once witnessed him spend almost a full hour dusting one picture frame.

She couldn’t blame him. She had the general impression that Lord Chipping didn’t pay much attention to what Jughead spent his day doing as long as it looked like he was being productive. Betty had more or less found herself in the same position. 

Her husband had taken to leaving his office a few times a day, making rounds around the manor, including checking up on her in the parlor. After a close call where he nearly caught her napping in the lounge chair, she started leaving the parlor door open just so that she would be able to hear his footsteps down the hall.

As Betty did her best to entertain herself while keeping to her bedroom and the parlor, she hoped that with no one to oversee him, Jughead would be spending the whole day in the library.

It was only when she saw him in the main hall, wiping down floors with hardly any dirt on them that she realized that this was not the case. Jughead didn’t notice as she approached him, and visibly jumped when he turned to plunge his mop into the nearby soap bucket and saw her standing behind him.

“Betty,” he said, straightening his shoulders.

“Surely you don’t typically do this when Lord Chipping is gone on business.”

“Clean the floor?” he asked, with some amusement.

“Clean a floor that is mostly clean,” she corrected.

He glanced down at his work, and then back at her. “I was charged with making sure the house was in order for you while he was away.”

Betty sighed, “I don’t need you to pointlessly keep yourself busy on my account. Most of the rooms I won’t use, and I am perfectly capable of cleaning after myself.”

Jughead was watching her with a pensive look on his face, but his lips quirked in amusement. For a moment, she worried that she had completely overstepped, until Jughead broke the tension with a small shrug.

“Normally when he’s gone I keep to myself and read. Then I dust everything down when I get a letter notifying me of his return.”

“That’s perfectly acceptable,” Betty said. “Until then, I don’t want to catch you waxing the brass lanterns for no reason.”

This time he did smile, warm but still amused. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”  
  


And so things went. While Jughead spent his time reading in the library, Betty focused on exploring the manor. There was something to the layout of the building that Betty found strange. The rooms were never quite the size that she expected them to be, and the walls often met at strange angles. Whoever had designed the floor plan had clearly had a creative mind, but Betty could find no purpose for it.

After only a few days, she had explored all the rooms available to her. She still didn’t quite dare to try to venture into her husband’s study, and it felt imprudent to wander the servant’s quarters down on the bottom floor. She found herself returning to the parlor with little to do but work aimlessly on her needlework project. It took only a few days of that before she became so exhausted from boredom that she slept through most of the day curled up on the parlor couch.

Every day she considered joining Jughead in the library, and everyday she convinced herself that she would only be encroaching on his freedom. He had seemed welcome to her company when she had returned the book he had given her, but what must he think of her, to speak with him so openly. Worse yet, what would her husband think of it?

Somehow, a week went by before Betty considered an option she had until then overlooked altogether. On a bright sunny morning, Betty woke up with the sudden realization that she was free to leave the manor grounds. She had never even considered taking a stroll outside during the weeks she had now been at the manor. Her discomfort had kept her restrained to the rooms she had been made acquainted with.

For the first time since she arrived, she eagerly dressed for the day and bound down the stairs. Just as she was putting on her warm coat and hat, Jughead came through the servant entry way out into the main hall.

“Betty,” Jughead glanced from where she was tying the ribbon of her hat under her chin, down to her coat and walking shoes. “Where are you going?”

“Out for a walk,” she said, simply. 

His expression grew contemplative, and for a moment, Betty was afraid that her husband may have instructed him to keep her from leaving the house. After a thoughtful pause, he spoke tentatively, “Would you like company?”

_Say no_ , came her first impulse, her chest constricting tightly with sudden, irrational fear. _Say yes_ , she thought almost at the exact same time. The fear had come from the very same place that had kept her inside the manor for weeks. It was the impulse that told her to stay quiet, to stay where she was expected to be. Jughead wasn’t at the manor to be her friend. Like her, he had a place where he was supposed to be, his own boundaries he wasn’t allowed to cross. And in the end, that was what determined her answer.

“I would love that.”

There was a slight chill in the air outside the manor, but with the brush of cool wind also came the rejuvenating scent of crisp Spring air. The sun was shining comfortingly overhead, and even the dark siding of the manor gleaned under the sunlight. As Jughead took a moment to lock up the front gate, Betty took a few steps back to study the manor. 

When she had first arrived, the structure had been engulfed by darkness. In the daylight, it was still a large, daunting structure, but Betty could now make out its edges. Compared to the vast open land surrounding it, the manor was a small thing. Out of fear, she had imagined the manor all-encompassing, a cage with no exits. Now that she had stepped away, she could see her cage for what it was. It was truly just a building. She could almost cry with relief. 

She could hear Jughead’s soft steps behind her as she walked ahead, keeping her eyes on the manor as the side came into view. For a moment she was blinded by sunlight reflecting off of the building. Once her eyes adjusted, she could see that the source of the reflection was a large stained glass window extending just under the roof in the shape of a half circle. Beside her, Jughead followed her gaze. 

“I’ve never seen it up close, it’s up on the third floor. Apparently, it encompasses an entire wall up there,” he explained. “Seems kind of a shame to me.”

“You’ve never been up there?” She turned back to him, but had to blink to clear the sunspots from her eyes before she could actually make out his expression.

He shook his head, his mouth folding at the corners thoughtfully. “The third floor was sealed off before I started working here. It might have been blocked off before Chipping was born for all I know.”

“He mentioned having it renovated,” she said, but Jughead responded with a short, breathy laugh.

“He’s _said_ that for years. I think it’s just his automatic response when anyone asks about it. From what I’ve seen, he’s never even spoken with a builder.”

Betty looked again to the window. “You’re right,” she said softly. “It is a shame.” Lord Chipping had mentioned turning the area into a new library. It was so easy to imagine sitting by the large window with a book, the colors from the window streaming over the edge of the pages. Jughead’s desk would be right beside her, angled so that the sunlight wouldn’t get in his eyes.

She had trouble imagining Lord Chipping within the vision at all. Betty had never so much as seen him enter the manor library. Surely, he allowed himself time for leisure, but when Betty tried to envision him lounging in a chair with a book in his hands, the image felt wrong somehow.

“Does he often read?”

“Hm?” Jughead blinked, as if broken from his own train of thought.

“Lord Chipping. Does he read from the library?”

“Oh. He reads, but it’s always from new books that he’s ordered. Once he’s done, he puts them in the library. I think he keeps up with books mostly so he can talk about them with his society friends.”

That fit Betty’s own experience with Lord Chipping. During their brief courtship, he had seemed prepared for every avenue of conversation. He had chatted with her mother about new society trends, conversed with her father about travel and business, all while keeping up with Betty and Polly’s conversations about the books they were reading. It seemed her husband was quite skilled at being every bit the perfect gentleman.

Betty found that she didn’t particularly want to talk about Lord Chipping anymore. Instead, she turned away from the manor and toward the road. 

“Which direction is the town from here?”

Jughead pointed ahead. “It’s about two miles that way, but there isn’t much to occupy your time there. Around here, it’s mostly just farmland.”

Betty just nodded silently. She had been told as much before she married. “It’s a quiet place,” her husband-to-be had explained, “but you will have everything you need. Dresses, decor, anything of fashion can be ordered in from the city. You can be happy there. With me.”

She hadn’t believed him then, but she had pretended to. Her family was quickly burning through what funds they had left. Another year, and they would need to let their house to a wealthier family for the sake of money alone. Now that Betty was married, their home was secure, as was their social standing. Her marriage had provided exactly what she was promised, and nothing more.

Tired of dwelling on her current circumstances, Betty marched forward, breaking away from the road and walking across the grass. Jughead followed dutifully, but didn’t attempt further conversation.

The grass was soft under her heels. Morning dew wet the ends of her skirt. Quite suddenly, she was filled with an overpowering, desperate need to run. Run forward, or run away, she didn’t know. She followed the urge, hiking up her skirt a few inches by balling up the fabric in her hands, she bound across the open field. As she ran, she lifted her head up, taking quick sharp breaths. She didn’t stop until her chest burned from the exertion and her feet started to ache. 

When she looked back behind her, Jughead was still several yards away, walking toward her at a patient, steady pace.

With her chest still heaving, Betty gathered her skirts and sat down directly on the wet grass. She fell down heavily, without grace, but she found that she didn’t particularly care. After a few minutes, Jughead was at her side. When she looked up at him, she was surprised to find him smiling at her. His eyes were warm and brilliant against the sunlight. He sat on the grass beside her without so much as a comment.

Still, as she turned away to look out at the countryside in front of them, she could feel him watching her. She let the silence hang between them for a while, before she finally broke it herself. "Whatever it is that you would like to say, Jughead, you can go ahead and say it."

He didn’t say anything right away, and when he did speak, he sounded unsure. "It's not a matter of wanting to," he confided, "as much as if I _should_."

Betty couldn't help but laugh. From what she had seen of Jughead, she had learned that propriety was rarely a factor in what he chose to say. Rather, the only thing that seemed to keep him from voicing his thoughts out loud was his consideration for avoiding trouble. 

It was possible that they were much alike in that way. Except, Betty had learned to live and breathe propriety. When she didn't know what else to do, she fell back into it like a second skin. It wasn’t that she necessarily _believed_ in propriety, but she didn’t want the trouble that could come of not following it.

"Go ahead, Jughead,” she pressed.

He was still watching her with a solemn expression on his face. “How are you taking to the manor?”

She was tempted to tease him by saying, _That is a perfectly proper thing to ask me, Jughead_ , but she knew that his intention in asking her went much deeper than polite small talk. From the soft concern in his eyes, it was clear that he was hoping for an honest answer from her.

She was tempted to dismiss it. It would be easy to do. _I have everything I need. My husband is the ideal gentleman._ Anyone else would undoubtedly believe her, but Jughead wouldn’t.

Completely out of habit, she felt herself force a smile. As soon as she recognized the impulse, she instantly let it drop. “I don’t know,” she said, finally.

Jughead hummed thoughtfully. It was a moment before he spoke again. “I read Ligeia.” 

It had been nearly a week since they had first spoken of it in the library. “And what did you think of it?”

“I think I would have ready it differently if I hadn’t spoken with you about it first.”

“How so?”

“I would have sympathized with the husband more,” he admitted.

“Ah, he is the protagonist,” she conceded, “That alone tends to earn sympathy.”

Jughead gave an apathetic shrug, “It wasn’t that as much as it was the profound expression of the depth of his love.”

“For Ligeia,” Betty supplied. The first wife. 

“The second wife becomes little more than a vessel for the protagonist’s desires. Her person and her concerns are largely dismissed.”

“Do her concerns even truly matter in the end?”

“They matter, Betty.” Jughead said quietly.

They sat in silence for a good while. Eventually the wind picked up, and Betty closed her eyes, feeling the fresh breeze across her face. 

When she opened her eyes again, Jughead was watching her. “You should go on walks more often. This is the most relaxed I’ve seen you since you arrived.”

Betty looked down and ran her hand along the grass, just for something to do with her hands. “I wasn’t sure my husband would approve.”

He tilted his head, considering. “I don’t say this to be unkind, but… I’m not sure he would notice your absence.” 

Betty gave a short, mirthless laugh. “He does at least like to check that I’m where he left me.”

Jughead’s expression grew dark, his eyes on the horizon. “Well. I’d vouch for you. You could go on walks with Ethel. That would be-” He turned toward her, but started when he found her watching him. He glanced away, swallowing nervously, “-proper.”

“Yes, that’s true.” She looked back down at the grass. Ethel would be a perfectly respectful walking companion, but Betty didn’t feel like she would be able to be completely honest with her, much less outright complain to her. If she vented her concerns to Ethel, Ethel would surely try to find a way to help her. That wasn’t always what Betty needed. Sometimes she just needed a confidant.

Betty glanced at Jughead out of the corner of her eyes once more, before looking back down at the grass. “I’ll ask her,” she felt a nervous thrill run through her as she added, “when my husband is around.” 

“Right,” Jughead said, the small crack in his voice almost imperceptible.  
  


It didn’t feel right to return to the parlor after her little taste of freedom. So instead, she picked up her needlework and carried it to the library. She was determined to finish the thing, at the very least so that the project no longer hung over her, providing her with an extra source of unneeded dread. She hoped she could persuade Jughead to read his book aloud as a means of entertainment.

When she entered the library, Jughead quickly took an interest in the needlework in her hands. When she sat down on the couch, he moved to sit beside her so he could watch over her shoulder. “You’ve been working at that for awhile.”

As she threaded her needle, she sighed, “This isn’t something I particularly enjoy doing.”

“It’s well done,” Jughead said, reaching out to tilt the face of the fabric toward him. 

Betty had started a bit aimlessly with her design. Lacking any inspiration, she had started stitching something familiar, a small blue bird she had often stitched into her needlework at home. From there, she had added the first thing to come to mind, a birdcage surrounding it. Currently, she was outlining a set of leaves and flowers just outside of the cage, as if the cage was hanging outside in a garden.

As Betty started adding in lines within the leaves, Jughead watched her with fascination. 

“You know,” Betty said, in between stitches. “I came in here hoping I could persuade you to read to me. Seeing as I can’t stitch and read at the same time.”

He looked over at her with a discreet smile she was beginning to grow very accustomed to. “What if we make a deal?”

Betty put her needlework down on her lap. “What do you have in mind?”

He reached over to take the fabric in his hands. “If you teach me how, I’ll do the needlework, and you can be the one to read out loud.”

“You want to learn?” she asked, a bit surprised. 

“It could be useful,” he said. His eyes met herself briefly, and then flickered away. “For gifts.”

“Well,” she said after a pause, “I certainly wouldn’t argue with passing over this project. We’ll see how you do with some instruction and go from there.”

For the rest of the afternoon, Betty had leaned over Jughead’s shoulder as he made careful stitches. After he seemed to get a general sense of it, Betty took the needlework back in hand and finished stitching in one of the leaves so that he could watch the process. Then she had him mimic her work by stitching in another leaf just beside it.

In order to get a good look at what he was doing, Betty sat close to his side. She was close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating off of him. She did her best not to move so close as to touch him, but each time they passed the needlework between them, their hands bumped against each other. Still, Betty did not draw back, and if Jughead was bothered by her proximity, he didn’t show it.

It wasn’t until the following day that Betty felt that Jughead had grown confident enough in his stitching that Betty could leave him to work without her oversight. She asked him to decide what book they should read first. Betty had expected Jughead to pick out something new, but instead he was interested if she had already read Edgar Allan Poe’s detective stories. After comparing notes on which works they had each already read, Jughead came to the conclusion that they should read the whole collection outloud from the beginning.

“We won’t be able to have a decent discussion without refreshing our memory,” Jughead explained.

“Oh, you want us to have an involved discussion about all of his works do you?”

He looked a bit put out, but she could tell that he only meant to tease her.

“Alright, alright,” she said, and flipped to the front of the collection.

Time passed by very quickly, much more so than any of the days Betty had spent at the manor over the previous weeks. Each afternoon, they would focus on reading and needlework only setting it aside during meals, and even then they actively carried on discussions of what had been read, or how the needlework project was progressing. 

Betty would have found the work of stitching tens of leaves utterly tiresome, but Jughead seemed to find a small fascination in it. Meanwhile, Betty found that she enjoyed reading aloud to him. He made for an engaging audience, even though he already knew the stories well. It seemed each new reading brought out thoughts he hadn’t had before, about the story, the writing, or the structure.

“I might suppose you fancy yourself a writer, Jughead."

He blushed at that, and Betty was certain then that it was true.

“I hope you will allow me the honor of reading _your_ work aloud someday.” 

“It’s not that good,” he dismissed her interest with a small laugh. He was quick to change the subject. “Can you continue with the next passage?”

It wasn’t long before the comfortable respite from her husband was broken. Three weeks had passed in Lord Chipping’s absence when a letter came with the morning post.

“He says he’ll be back in a week’s time,” Jughead explained after looking over the letter. “I’ll have to get to work on cleaning.”

“I could help,” she supplied.

He gave her an odd, shrewd look then, “I couldn’t ask that of you, Betty. And there isn’t that much to do, it won’t take me long.”

It did, however, mean less time spent together in the library. The problem, Betty quickly found, was that not having much to distract her left her too much in her own thoughts. 

The moment the letter had arrived, an acute sense of dread had overtaken her. In her brief freedom, she had almost let herself forget the overpowering helplessness that Lord Chipping seemed to always evoke in her. She had allowed herself to place her personal concerns on hold, but now they had returned even more debilitating than before.

She stared down at the needlework in her hands, and for the first time in a week was reminded of why she had taken on this project in the first place. To please her husband. 

Her mother’s voice rang in her ear, like an apparition. _Don’t forget the things we spoke of._

Before she had fully processed the thought, Betty stood up from her chair, the needlework clattering to the ground. As she left the library in a hurry, she almost ran straight into Jughead as he was heading down the hall. He reached an arm out to her shoulder to keep them from colliding.

“Betty. Is something wrong?”

She knew she must look sickly and pale, so she said, “I’m not feeling well. I need to go lie down. I can’t-” Her stomach lurched, and she closed her eyes tightly in an attempt to center herself.

“Of course.” Her eyes were still shut, so she couldn’t see his expression, but his voice was laced with worry. “Do you need help?”

“No,” she said, a bit severely. “I can go myself. Thank you.” She opened her eyes, and he was much closer to her than she had realized. He was leaning toward her, studying her complexion. There was concern in his expression, but his eyes also held hints of sadness as well.

“I’ll have food brought up to you,” he said. Despite her previous protest, he helped her to the base of the stairs. She walked the rest of the way to her bedroom without once looking back.

For more than an hour, Betty laid on her bed, trying not to think of the little leather bound book her mother had sent with her. For the past week she had allowed herself to ignore it’s existence entirely. She didn’t need to look at it to know what it would tell her. With dread, she pulled the book from under her mattress.

She marked each day passed with growing anxiety. The calendar days told her what she already knew. When her husband returned, she would be back within her fertility period. The moment she had narrowly avoided the previous month could be delayed no longer.

Just as she felt a cold sweat break across her neck, there was a knock at the door. Without waiting for a response, Ethel slid into the room with a silver tray in her hands. A large ceramic bowl was covered with a lid. “Mr. Jones called for me, he said you weren’t feeling well,” she explained.“So I brought you up some warm soup.”

Betty took deep, steadying breaths before she spoke. “Thank you, Ethel.”

“You really don’t look well, milady,” Ethel said, studying Betty’s complexion much like Jughead had.

It was only then that Betty burst into tears.

“Lady Elizabeth,” Ethel said in shock.

Betty curled forward, burrowing her head in her covers, trying to get herself under control.

Ethel put a hand on her shoulder. “What’s wrong?” She felt Ethel ruffle the sheets around her, setting a pillow against her back. She could feel the movement as Ethel reached for her leather book in front of her.

When Ethel didn’t speak, Betty’s own words broke the silence.“I’m not- I’m not ready,” she choked. She sat up and ran the back of her hand across her face, her embarrassment beginning to overtake her distress.

Ethel was looking at her thoughtfully. “Milady... Do you think you are with child?”

“ _No_ ,” Betty said with a laugh that came out as a hiccup. “But that is precisely what I am afraid of happening.”

Ethel sat down softly on the bed beside her, and placed her free hand over Betty’s own hand, still bundled into a fist around her bed sheets. With her other arm, Ethel pulled Betty into a hug. Her voice was quiet as she said, “It’s not unusual for new brides to be nervous about motherhood.” 

Betty tried to speak, but her words came out as a garbled mess as her panic started to overtake her again.

Ethel made a comforting sound and rubbed her hand down Betty’s back. Then she whispered into Betty’s ear,“There is a lady who works with the apothecary, she sells a remedy that can prevent pregnancy. Would you like me to bring some for you?”

Betty gripped at Ethel’s arm. “Yes,” she said, desperately. “Please, Ethel”

Ethel breathed out, visibly relieved. “I’ll bring it to you tomorrow morning. It will be our secret, milady.”

Betty pulled Ethel into a close hug, her arms still shaking uncontrollably.


End file.
